


I Hired Death, and He Came Knocking

by Whisper_Lady89



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, My First Smut, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25194160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper_Lady89/pseuds/Whisper_Lady89
Summary: A successful but seriously depressed woman hires The Winter Soldier to kill her, but then neglects to give him clear instruction as to how. When he shows up in person for instruction, she figures, why not live a little before...?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	I Hired Death, and He Came Knocking

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle with me, I am not super well-versed in the lore of the Marvel universe, just an avid watcher of the movies. Also, I've never posted a story here, and I'm nervous as hell. I have plans for other, longer stories, but only if this isn't the trash I'm terrified it's going to be. Constructive criticism is welcome, trolling is not! Thank you!
> 
> Edit: I think we've fixed the formatting, thank you to CherieLebeu!

**Hired to Kill Me**

  
  


So tired. So very tired. That was the only thing she could feel anymore with no extra effort. Katherine Irvin was twenty eight, the owner and founder of a small internet startup that had nevertheless made her decently wealthy. She lived alone, the only child of a strong-willed woman and an absentee man, but she'd managed to carve a niche for herself in New York City. Her life clicked along in the direction she'd chosen, despite her mother's strong opinions on what she _ought_ to be doing, and despite the lack of romantic content. She was a heroine to her staff and many of her contemporaries, a much sought-after prize for more men than she realized, and was so buried under depression that she could barely function through each day.

  
  


Waking up was a torment, going through the motions of working was tedious at best, eating was something she only did because someone reminded her. She'd gone to therapists, but they wanted to put her on drugs, and that was something she desperately did not want. To go through life constantly popping pills, to be dependent on chemicals to be happy—that sounded worse than what she had now. Besides, she'd been raised to believe she was all she'd ever need. No man, or woman for that matter, had been given a chance to make her dependent on them. After all, what would happen when they left her? Everyone did, eventually...

  
  


_But Kathy_ , her inner voice (growing fainter by the day) would say stubbornly, _you have so much left to live for! You're a genius at marketing, your software and concept development is on point and on trend, and there's got to be SOMEONE out there for you. Even Mom could've had someone if she hadn't been such a raging bitch. She just wanted you to be as miserable as she always was. C'mon, get up, go do something useful!_ And on, she would coach herself and prod herself and force herself to go through her day, never letting on to her employees or personal staff, until she could collapse into her home at the end of the day.

  
  


She'd taken to surfing the dark web every night after work, toying with ideas and daydreaming, instead of going out with people she used to be at least friendly with. Her apartment in uptown NYC was lovely still, despite its proximity to Stark Tower (now Avengers Tower) and therefore the massive damage that had been done scant months ago.

  
  


During that awful day, she had holed up without telling anyone she was staying in her home, half hoping she would be killed in the mayhem. She'd watched the aliens zooming and zipping around, and the superheroes came out of the woodwork to stop them. Her apartment building had been one of the few relatively unscathed, to her secret sorrow. She'd sat on the window seat during the battle and in the aftermath, watching in to comfort of her own home. It was tastefully furnished and decorated, each piece and color meticulously chosen by Kathy's own hand—and she cared nothing for any of it anymore. Instead, it neither brought her joy nor annoyed her, she simply ceased to see it, buried as she was in her own misery, made all the worse because she had no reason or basis to be depressed.

  
  


One evening, after a more-difficult-than-usual day of being human for her peers and underlings, she skimmed through the dark alleys and shadowy corridors of the Dark Web, seeing advertisements for sale of organs ( _I could do that, then at least two people will benefit—whoever brokers the kidneys or whatever and whoever received the transplant..._ ), arms and munitions ( _Shooting oneself is fairly painless, unless you fuck it up and live—but I'm not stupid enough to miss at that range..._ ), and—here was something interesting. A page for assassins. She could, with enough money, purchase the death of anyone she chose. She toyed for a few moments with silly and vague thoughts of competitors or high school bullies she still harbored some small grievances for—then slowly sat up and stared at the screen.

  
  


_Me. I could target...me._ She shook her head in annoyance. _Of course I couldn't. It's illegal, and immoral, and..._ Her head tilted to one side and her eye glittered in consideration. _And it's just about perfect. I wouldn't know when or where or how, and it can't be traced as a suicide so my will would be followed and my stupidly large life insurance policy would still be paid out to the hospitals and charities I've listed as my benefactors. No one would care that I was gone with enough money lining their pockets anyway...OK, except maybe Mom, but she's got her own life, and she's constantly telling me how useless I am, so I doubt she'll be that upset for long. Let's see..._

She began surfing around the page, unaware that clicking the link and looking through the profiles of the various hit-men and -women had turned her webcam on and sent her live feed to the organization behind this lucrative business.

  
  


She considered and dismissed several candidates before sitting back in her chair and staring at the profile titled, “The Winter Soldier.” The picture was a shadowy silhouette, nothing more than the impression of a face and hair, and a very muscular build. The skills mastered, languages learned, and kills credited to this man were impressive to say the least, and Kathy swallowed a little before the thought crept in that he would certainly know what he was doing. She looked at the price per kill of the average citizen (obviously politicians or public figures would go for more than just a Joe Blow on the street!), and winced a little. But, she reasoned, it wasn't like she could take it with her, and she didn't want to get someone who didn't know their job.

  
  


All of a sudden, her indecisive attitude was overtaken by some of her old ability to make her choices and stick by them. She filled out all the pertinent information, including her bank account info, but was temporarily stymied by the question of how she wanted the target eliminated. She had thought a simple head shot, quick and clean, but now she wondered if there wasn't another, simpler way... She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, still unaware that some cold blue-gray eyes were watching her and waiting for her answer. Then, she shrugged and typed in, “You choose. I don't care how I go, but it must NOT look like a suicide, and, if possible, I'd rather it didn't hurt, please.”

  
  


Nodding, she sent the information—and the money—flying away from her. There was a narrow window to cancel the order, just an hour or so, but instead of thinking about it, Kathy closed the dark net down and got ready for bed. She left it on, only turning the monitor off so the light wouldn't bother her. Having her computer in her bedroom was sometimes inconvenient for sleeping, but not often enough for her to devote an actual space to an office. She laid down, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

  
  


Dark brows furrowed as he watched her undress and slip naked between her sheets. The soldier puzzled over this new assignment as he watched her prepare for and eventually fall asleep. He read the information she'd provided again, and understood that she'd taken a hit out on herself, but he didn't understand why she'd done it. Her finances were on another screen, and though the hit was pricey, it didn't even come close to wiping her out, even without counting the value of her company stock she could cash in. She wasn't having money troubles. Her business was doing fine, no sorrows or stresses there. She had no partner or lover, and didn't seem to want one. Her health was fine, too—medical records indicated she was in peak condition and had nothing to worry about there either.

  
  


So, why would a healthy, single, independently wealthy woman want to die at a stranger's hands?

  
  


The soldier considered for a moment, and became mildly agitated at the text in the method box. “You choose...” He had no barometer for this, no experience choosing literally anything for himself. He was the Winter Soldier, and he went where he was told when he was told, and did what he was told. This choosing business, it was outside his scope. He watched her sleep, watched her toss a little with her dreams, and puzzled over her...

  
  


When Kathy woke the next morning, she made a conscious effort to not obsess over her impending death. She knew it could be any moment now. She dressed carefully, wearing nicer under things than usual so that...what? The EMTs and other medical personnel would have a nice view? What foolishness. Still, she wore lace and ribbon under her clothes, and somehow felt better and prettier and _stronger_ somehow for the effort no one else would see.

  
  


She deliberated over the contents of her closet, and finally chose a dress the color of ripe peaches. It brought a golden hue to her skin, and made her hair seem a brighter blonde than it already was. And with the nicer-than-usual bra, her breasts almost seemed to be straining against the material. She ate slowly, at her much-loved window seat. She let her summer-blue eyes rove over the scene outside, deliberately not looking at rooftops or windows, just watching her world go by. Finishing her breakfast, she tidied up, walked downstairs to hail a cab, and went to work, putting her purchase and it's imminent conclusion to the back of her mind.

  
  


Things went better today—she wasn't frustrated at her job, or the way things went. What did she care? Everything would be fine in a little while. But as the day wore on, she became a little despondent. How long would she have to wait? The money had come out of her account already, and the window to cancel was long closed, so what was the hold up? She finally shrugged mentally and decided the Winter Soldier person must be far away, and not really able to fit her into his busy schedule of killing people. She had patience—after all, what else was she going to be doing?

  
  


After the last task of the day was done, Kathy went to an open air market and bought her supper. A last meal should be somewhat special, so she treated herself to some Greek gyros made by a man who seemed older than time itself. They were good, too, and made her smile finally. She wandered the market for a time, thinking it would give time for a quick and easy shot, just in case. But nothing happened. She was again mildly disappointed, but again shrugged it off and walked to her building door. Stepping into her living room, she turned and locked the door behind her, slipping out of her flats and dropping her bag on the table, and releasing the tie at the end of her long golden braid.

  
  


She turned to go to her room and her computer and realized the lamp she usually left on in the corner of the room was off. Not that it was a big deal, maybe the bulb had burned out, but the hair on the back of her neck tingled. She padded barefoot over to the lamp, unbraiding and finger-combing her hair, but didn't see anyone or anything out of the ordinary. Then she thought that maybe, just maybe, it was a bomb attached to the lamp switch and turning it back on would make it explode. She'd seen that in a movie once, right? Kathy took a deep breath and slowly released it, then smoothly reached out and turned the switch for the lamp.

  
  


And the light came on. Letting out a huff of frustration and a small giggle at her dramatics, she turned and nearly screamed.

  
  


A very tall man had crept up behind her, cutting off her escape route and looming behind her. His face was covered by a half mask, his dark brown hair hung on either side of his face, and his icy gray-blue eyes burned out of his face. But his left arm was what caught her attention the most (well, really, it was a tie between his arm and his eyes. Who knew eyes that cold could look that tortured and sad?), the glittering shining silver of the metal muscles, perfectly formed metal fingers and hand... Yes, she was sure this was the Winter Soldier.

  
  


She was calm, and ready, and unflinching, even when he brought a hand up slowly to just brush her hair away from her face to better see with. He cocked his head over to one side and studied her. For her part, Kathy was confused. Had she broken some kind of rule by ordering the hit on herself? Was he going to stare her to death? What was going on? Abruptly, he spoke.

  
  


“Why do you want to die?” It was a toss up as to who was more surprised at the question that had fallen from his lips. After blinking at him for a moment, and without thinking too deeply into her answer, Kathy replied,

  
  


“I don't have a reason. But nor do I have a reason to live. Living is painful and brutal, and more work than I want to put in.” He nodded, as though her words had resonated with him. She waited for him to do something, but he only stood staring at her and cocked his head to the side, and she thought she could see puzzlement on his face above the mask.

  
  


“How shall I proceed?” he asked, and though asking about the time of day. Kathy blinked at him.

  
  


“Um. I don't know. You're the professional killer. Shouldn't you know how to do this? Your favorite methods and such?” He blinked at her slowly, cocking his head the other way, for all the world like a large bird.

  
  


“I have never had the choice.” Mildly shocked, Kathy could only stare at him for a moment. Finally she gave a little half laugh and gestured helplessly, a sign of flabbergasted nerves.

  
  


“Well, come in here so at least one of us can get more comfortable.” She led the way into her bedroom, and as he followed like a large and exceedingly dangerous puppy, a thought occurred to Katherine. _You'll never get another chance at this, and you've never had really good sex, and he ticks every. single. ONE of your boxes, so...what have you got to lose?_ In her bedroom, she walked a few steps in, then turned and faced the Soldier head on.

  
  


“OK, here's what I've come up with, and feel free to refuse to do this. I don't know if this goes against your rules or whatever, but here goes. I've never had...” and here, Kathy's words dried up and her bravado died in her throat. How could she possibly go through with this? He was watching her with a focused and intense gaze, and as she crossed her arms under her breasts, she saw his gaze slide down to them briefly and the barest hint of heat fill his gaze. Very well then, maybe this wouldn't be too hard. Kathy made a decision.

  
  


She reached behind her and pulled down the zipper of her dress, letting it fall off her shoulders and pool on the floor around her bare feet. She was wearing only smoke colored lace and ribbon, cut low on her belly and the thong neatly resting on the crack of her ass. The bra pushed her average chest up to look way bigger than usual, and with her hair down and wavy from the braid, she thought she looked pretty good indeed. The Winter Soldier must have thought so, too, because she heard a sound from him, almost a growl, and she saw hunger and lust in his eyes.

  
  


“I want you to fuck me. I want to feel, just feel. Anything. Mostly I want to feel you inside me. And when we're both satiated and I can't take any more pleasure. I want you to kill me and make it look like a robbery or something, so it's not ruled a suicide. Can you do that?” For a moment, she wasn't sure he'd heard her words. Then, he nodded, and started undoing his straps and buckles. She stood watching him, then got the idea that music would be welcome.

  
  


She turned on her player and Nine Inch Nails' “Closer”—wildly appropriate given the circumstances—began its familiar and intense intro. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let the beat of the music thrum through her blood. She turned back to him in time to see him in only pants and the mask, the rest of his clothes and weapons as well as his boots in a heap on the floor. His weapons—a large amount, she thought, for what he'd been wearing—lay on top of the pile, in easy reach. She looked in his eyes and saw what she'd been wanting. He came toward her, movements like oiled steel, predatory and menacing and oh-so-exciting. She shivered, and felt a tingle where she hadn't tingled in...a very long time. Then he was there, right in front of her, and she stopped thinking so much.

  
  


His body was exactly what she'd expected, yet also nothing she could've imagined. The hard planes and lines of his muscles, the absolute lack of body fat, were all what she would've thought a super assassin would be like. But the scars... His body was a mass of scars, the worst of which radiated from where his metal arm met his flesh. His eyes went hard as flint when he saw her reach for him, but she didn't notice, and she brushed her fingers gently over his skin, tracing a large, corded scar that was white and shiny, like a vein of silver in his pasty olive-toned skin. He was so tense and ready, he nearly vibrated, but he allowed her to touch his scar and follow it to his arm. She kept her touch feather-light as she felt the join of metal and man, her curiosity peaked and her fascination evident. She lifted her eyes to his, her wonder plain on her face, and though the look in his eyes gave her pause, she focused on his mask instead.

  
  


She rose on tip-toes, placing a hand on his chest to steady herself, and gently slid her hand under his hair to undo the buckle that kept the muzzle-like covering on his face. When she got it loose and tossed it on the pile on the floor, he looked more vulnerable, and less certain of himself. She needed him to be strong, so she slid her mouth over his, her tongue darting out a little to trace his full bottom lip.

  
  


For a moment, he did nothing and she was afraid she would have to do all the work. Next thing she knew, she was flying through the air to land with a grunt on her back in the middle of her bed. He was on her quickly, a predator in every sense, and he took her mouth with ferocity.

  
  


Her kiss had been gentle and teasing. His was punishing and meant business, his lips covering hers and his teeth scraping her mouth. He kissed her back with raw intensity and fervor. It was like he was trying to eat her from the mouth down, and she loved it. But he didn't keep it to her mouth—he wandered down her throat and bit where her jaw met her neck. Her body spasmed, a jolt of heat running from that spot to her groin, and she moaned a little. He licked the spot to soothe a little, then moved on. He would bite her, and when she moaned and shuddered for him he would ease the pain and move to the next spot.

  
  


With his titanium hand, he easily caged both her wrists above her head, and his body lay on hers and between her legs, and trapped her. Not that she minded at all. His other hand touched wherever he wanted. He brushed the sides of her breasts, reaching under her to undo the bra so he had access. He moved it up to her hands and left it, unwilling to let go of his captive for even that long. Thus began a torturous and deliriously pleasurable time for Kathy.

  
  


The Soldier bit and sucked on her breasts, using his flesh hand to caress the one he wasn't teasing with his mouth. He licked around her nipples, circling one and then the other with his tongue, then latched onto it like a dying man to life. Her back arched and she moaned, legs rising in a futile attempt to...she didn't know what, because he slid his body further between her legs and trapped her utterly. He raised his head to look at her from underneath his lashes, a curtain of his hair falling over his eyes. They were still predatory and a little blank, but she thought she saw a little bit of wicked light in them before he bit gently on her nipple—and a line of fire raced through her.

  
  


Her mind went foggy and her vision blurred, and she let her head fall back on her bed with a groan. She thought she heard him chuckle darkly, then she felt him switch hands so his flesh caged her wrists, and the metal fingers on his left caressed her side as he brought his fingers down to her hip. He released her nipple and immediately sucked on the hardened point, making her gasp and her hips jerk up. In a movement almost faster than she could process, he flipped her over onto her stomach and straddled her back, using her bra to tie her hands to the bars of her brass headboard.

  
  


She didn't struggle, knowing she'd lose anyway, and besides, she wanted whatever he had for her. Her hands secured, he leaned down and bit the back of her neck, hard, while grinding a substantial erection into her ass. She heard herself make a wanton and needy sound she'd never made with anyone before, and lifted her hips to press back into him. If she'd been able to form words, she would've begged him to make love to her. She would've been disappointed, too. The Winter Soldier knew nothing of love.

  
  


He used the raising of her hips to slide a pillow underneath her and put her ass up higher off the bed. She felt him considering, then one of her pillowcases was held in front of her mouth. It had been folded up and rolled, and at first she wasn't sure what he wanted her to do with it. When she looked up at him, a question in her eyes and on her lips, his metal forefinger slid against her mouth, pressing on her bottom lip until she opened to him. He slid the cool digit into her mouth, and she spontaneously sucked on it. His eyes crinkled up, like he was grinning at her without moving his mouth, and she definitely saw wicked humor in his eyes, even as he pressed on her jaw to open her mouth back up.

  
  


He tucked the gag he'd made into her mouth, quieting any cries she might let loose that would bring neighbors or doormen knocking. Then he ran that same metal finger down her spine, all the way down to her ass. He climbed off the bed and rummaged in her dresser drawers briefly, then her closet. She couldn't see what he was doing, but the anticipation was nearly killing her. She felt rather than heard him near her feet (the man seemed incapable of making noise when he moved!), and he picked up her left foot, using something from her clothes to bind it at the ankle to the foot board. He did the same to the right foot, and climbed back up on her right side.

  
  


There was a slithering sound, then a sharp crack. She whipped her head around to try to look at him, and saw what he'd been in her closet for—one of her leather belts. He'd folded it in half and snapped it. While she watched, he waved it at her, then seemed to have a thought. He draped the belt over her hips and went to her vanity, handily removing the mirror and carrying it to her. He wedged it between the mattress and the headboard so she could easily see him behind her, and everything he was doing or about to do to her. He watched her in the mirror, climbing back up to kneel between her legs, and she suddenly realized that she would have no way of telling him it was too much or that he needed to stop what he was doing.

  
  


Before she could even begin to puzzle out how she would overcome that little problem, two things happened. First, he slid one finger of his metal hand into her wet warmth, and second, he brought the belt across her ass in a firm swat. It made her jump, and clench a little, and give the tiniest of moans into her gag. He began a new round of torture now, slowly sliding a shining silver finger in and out of her pussy while every few minutes giving her a solid stroke with the belt. The pleasure of it, the pain of it, the not knowing when the next blow would fall, all combined into the most intoxicating and delicious feeling she'd ever had.

  
  


Slow heat built on her ass, and in her center, and as the feeling got bigger, she got more and more desperate for whatever was building to come to a peak. She did her best to push her body back onto his finger, begging through the gag for whatever he would give her next. He slid another finger into her at the same time a line of fire from the belt lit up her thighs. It was almost unbearable, and some distant part of her realized he was moving to the beat of the music playing forgotten in the background. It was industrial metal, a song she'd listened to for years, and it had a great beat, but for the life of her she couldn't understand what was being said or remember what the song was called or who it was by. He leaned over her body and started to murmur to her.

  
  


“What's wrong, little one? Is it too much?” The endearment made her clench again, striking a cord deep within her she hadn't known needed to be plucked, and sending her deep into a place she'd never been before. The need to know what was going on, to be in charge, left her, and she found great peace even as her body sang a song no one else could hear, but that the Soldier seemed to know by heart. He continued, “If it's too much for you, you should just... _cum for me_.” With those words, he simultaneously used his thumb to circle her clit and brought the belt whistling across her skin again. She exploded. She thought she saw stars behind her eyelids, and dimly realized she was humping his hand as best she could, and he was oh-so-helpfully keeping it still for her. When the orgasm had run its course, he went back to his inexorably slow fingering.

  
  


“Good girl,” he said softly, and she shuddered and moaned for him. “Yes, very good girl. Now... _again_.” He worked her endlessly, slipping in and out in slow, tormenting rhythm that drove her mad, until she was sobbing and mindless and had an animal-like desperation to mate.

  
  


After two more orgasms, each more shattering than the last, he slid a third finger into her and began continuously stimulating her clit. The swats came a little more frequently now, and she was a writhing mass of nerve endings. She had no thoughts beyond pleasure and pain, and they mixed in a heady fog in her mind until she couldn't tell one from the other. When he'd brought her to her fourth peak, he left the belt on the bed and began to rub her ass and thighs with lotion—but he never stopped his insidious titanium fingers' work. When he'd fully soothed the deep but very pleasurable ache in her skin, he gently slid the bindings off her ankles while slowly taking his hand away from her nether regions. She whimpered and rose up on her knees while keeping her face buried in the mattress, presenting herself to him.

  
  


He chuckled, a dark sound that made the hair on her arms stand up and a chill work down her spine. He leaned against her, having taken his pants off at some point Kathy missed, and rubbed against her. Her breath caught in her throat and she _whined_ at him, grinding back against him, begging through the gag for him to fuck her, please, please, please...

  
  


He reached down and took a handful of her hair at the base of her skull, gently but firmly pulling her head up so she was leaning against the headboard. He pushed her hips and knees forward a bit so it was easier for her to stay there, and lined himself up with her entrance. Just before he began to glide into her, he hesitated, then whispered into her ear in a voice rough and needy and promising dark pleasures, “I have a name, beyond The Winter Soldier. I don't remember what it is, but I have one. You can call me _Sir_ , though!”

  
  


And he plunged into her.

  
  


_OhmyGodI'mdying...!!!_ She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. She could only...feel. He'd slid in like coming home, sheathed to the hilt inside her, _filling her_ , and then just...stayed. For one moment, he'd stayed still, letting her feel his not-inconsiderable size within her. Then he started to move in and out of her, the same slow, concentrated pace as when he'd been using his fingers. The heat of him, behind her and inside her, his grip on her hair, the harshness of the metal she leaned on, it all added up to perfection, and her body responded. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she began to make throaty moaning screams in time to his thrusts. His metal hand came forward off her hip and began to brush her clit again, and she clenched around him and shifted her body just a fraction. This changed their positioning, and now he was rubbing over and over that _one_ place in a woman's body.

  
  


With every thrust, both in and out, he ran himself over her g-spot. She _became_ feeling. The most guttural screaming groans were torn from her throat, sounds more animal than human, and he reached up and took the gag from her mouth, whispering to her not to bring the neighbors or the cops in on them. She managed to keep the volume down, but not the intensity, obeying him without thought or question. She came again, this time fluid pouring out of her and her body clenching and shuddering and writhing, and he grunted and gasped behind her, struggling to keep up his steady rhythm.

  
  


She was sobbing, the pleasure almost more than she could handle, and he let go of her hair to pull her head back to his chest until her back was flush against his front. He slowed down and laid gentle kisses against the side of her face and neck, giving her time to breathe and calm down. When she was down to breathy gasps and sighs, he reached forward and undid the binding on her hands, pulling her with him to the edge of the bed.

  
  


Somehow he never slipped out of her, just manhandled her with him until he was sitting on the side with his feet on the floor. He lifted her off of him (she cried out at the loss of him inside her), turned her around to face him, and re-impaled her in another smooth stroke. He trapped her hands behind her back with his right hand, and used his left to encourage her to ride him. And she did, rocking her hips on him and rolling her body for him. He leaned forward and captured a nipple, and her head fell back nearly bonelessly. He began to help a little, matching her pace and the sensuous rhythm they both gloried in. He let go with a pop, and she brought her head down to put her forehead to his. Looking into his eyes, she saw desperation and lust and pain, and triumph—he was fulfilling his mission expertly.

  
  


“Is this what you needed, little one?” he asked, his breath catching in his throat and his voice straining with his need.

  
  


“Yes, Sir,” was all she could say, and he jerked inside her at the title.

  
  


“Good. Now, be a good girl and come on my cock!” And he shifted gears abruptly and fucked her until she thought her brains would literally pour out of her ears. His words resonated in her, and he kept up a running commentary, about how she was a good girl, a good little slut, and that he was proud of his little whore, his pretty little dirty girl...

  
  


She came again, and again, and as she came yet again, his voice became even more strained, and he gasped out a final, “Good... _GIRL!_ ” before coming inside her. The feel of him spilling into her sent her over again, and she nearly stopped breathing with the force of her pleasure. Her mind had long since shut off, but feeling his hot seed spurting into her, she gave a rumbling moan of contented pleasure— _this_ is what her body was meant for. He held her to him, stroking her hair while burying his face in her neck, and let go of her wrists to cup her bottom. She lifted one hand to stroke his hair in return, and he stilled suddenly. When he lifted his eyes to hers, he was nearly crying.

  
  


“Barnes. That's who I was, before I was The Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky to my friends.” She smiled down at him, lazy and happy with life for the first time in forever, and stroking hair away from his face.

  
  


“Well,” she commented, nearly shy, “I don't know if we qualify as friends now, but...I'm glad to know you, _Bucky_.” His eyes closed at hearing his name, for the first time in years, on another's lips, and the tears he'd been holding back spilled over.

  
  


“I can't... I can't complete my mission!” He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her chest, weeping. She held him as he cried, stroking his hair and murmuring to him. When he quieted, she touched his face and brought his eyes to meet hers.

  
  


“Strangely, I don't really want you to. Nor do I want a refund if that's your worry.” He choked out a laugh at that, and shook his head.

  
  


“No, it's not that. My worry is...a really long story, and not one I really want to tell. Suffice it to say, I don't want to do my job anymore, if I ever did, but I'm not sure I'll have a choice.” Noticing her confusion, Bucky waved his metal hand as if brushing something away. “Not important.” He helped her get up and clean up, change her sheets and such, and showered with her. He made slow and gentle love to her in the water, and soothed her aches and soreness with easy affection. She fell asleep with his arm around her, and slept deep and peacefully.

  
  


When Katherine woke up, he was gone, the only evidence that he'd ever been in her apartment, indeed in her life, being the bruises on her skin, and the feeling of silken soreness all over her. She decided she'd never see him again, but she was so happy to have had that night, and to be alive to greet the morning, and she held the memory of the magic Bucky had worked on her life tight in her heart. She dressed, ate breakfast in her window, and walked out to catch a cab to work. Everything was back to normal...

  
  


_One week after James Buchanan Barnes left Katherine's apartment, The Winter Soldier was released from his memory wiping and subsequent reprogramming. He was reminded of his mission regarding Ms. Irvin, with one change—he was told she had put 'head shot' in the method box._

  
  


_The Winter Soldier did not miss._

  
  


_Her assistant tearfully stated at her funeral that her last week of life had been the happiest he'd ever seen her, that she seemed to have finally kicked her bone-deep depression, and sorrowfully speculated that Kathy must have had a lover—though no one knew who he might be. Her mother was silent and still in her grief, and for the rest of her life regretted her treatment of her daughter. She founded a shelter for young women in her daughter's name._

  
  


_No one noticed a tall man with long hair and dead eyes watching the procession, nor the flash of pain followed by confusion, which slowly leaked back to blankness, as Bucky was once again buried beneath Winter's icy grip..._

  
  


_~~Fin~~_


End file.
